


The Resulting Present of Respective Pasts

by HaMandCheezIts



Series: Swingin'/Respective Pasts/Picked Apart Memories [2]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1885, 1980s, Dave can be nice when he wants to, Doc's a pretty smart guy but still eavesdrops, F/M, Gen, I think that's enough tags for now, Marty's memory is Twin Pines Timeline, Movie: Back to the Future Part III, My second work in this fandom, Need money for that guitar, Skateboarding, Uncle Milton, grounded, my second AO3 post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 03:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaMandCheezIts/pseuds/HaMandCheezIts
Summary: “Doc, what do you remember about how we met?”Emmett inhaled, then let out a slow breath. “How we met.”“Yeah. It’s just – if your memory is different than mine, then our background – our whole friendship – could be different than I remember, and I just don’t know if I can handle that. . .” Marty trailed off, breathing deeply.





	The Resulting Present of Respective Pasts

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of sorts from my first BTTF story, “Just a Swingin’.” My previous story was pretty short compared to this one, as it was more just to establish that Marty had begun getting memories from his new 1985, but that those memories were pretty incomplete. As that is a very common theme with BTTF fan fiction, I probably didn’t need to write a story preemptive to this one, but oh, well. It was my first AO3 post, and I’m happy about that. 
> 
> This story has a flashback to how Marty and Doc first met (Twin Pines universe/timeline), but it starts in Back to the Future III, right after Emmett saves Marty from being hanged by Buford Tannen and his gang. It’s slightly AU, as in the movie Emmett is shown the tombstone photograph much earlier; also, Mayor Hubert comes calling soon after Marty is introduced to Doc’s workshop and living quarters. I postpone that visit, and it now takes place at the end of "Picked Apart Memories." 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> -ck
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own _Back to the Future_, Doctor Emmett L. Brown, Marty McFly (or any of his family members or ancestors), Jennifer Parker (or her mother), any of the Tannens and/or their respective gangs, Douglas J. Needles, or Einstein the dog. I have created several original characters for this story.
> 
> _Band-Aid_ and _Tylenol _ are registered trademarks of Johnson & Johnson.
> 
> I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.

**Thursday, September 3rd, 1885**

**Hill Valley, California**

He’d barely been in the new (and improved?) 1985 for around nine hours before Doc had whisked him off again—hell, he’d only been _awake_ about a half hour – and the also new memories had had hardly any time to catch up to him. Really the only thing that he’d half-remembered was prompted by Biff handing him the keys to his truck. A kind of déjà vu had struck, and he’d recalled that his father had done the exact same thing four months ago, on his 17th birthday – placed the keys to the new 4X4 in his hand.

_No, on my birthday I got my Nikes and the new Dire Straits album._

And maybe he still had. After all, the white and red Bruins were currently on his feet (and he'd worn them in what - four different timelines now? Five?).

Once Doc had picked him and Jennifer up and they’d time-traveled to 2015, then back to 1985 (well, Alternative-1985, where he’d left poor Jennifer), then back further to 1955, and then lastly each of them had traveled individually to 1885. . . At that point, he'd been so befuddled about what time period he was in and if there was another one of him there or another one of Doc there or a better or worse version of his parents (not to mention Biff) there, he'd had a hard time remembering what had happened the day before. Or was it time period before?

At the moment, he was having a hard time remembering what had happened the hour before. Just how many times _had_ he gotten hit on the head? There was Grandpa Sam hitting him with the car (he’d first bumped his head on the hood and then smacked it on the street), Biff’s gang knocking him over the head in 1985A, him getting slammed with the gym door at the school in 1955 Visit Two (when he’d been facing down Biff and his double had burst through the door exiting the dance), and the final time, when he’d rolled pell-mell down the hill while running for his life, and had finished his fall by striking his head as he fell through the fence at his ancestor’s place. He’d been given a chance to recover on all but one of the times, but if he added in the poundings from Biff, almost getting struck by lightning, and now this most recent event of being dragged behind a horse to his near-hanging. . . One person shouldn’t be expected to go through so much, in such a short amount of time. Sure, he was young and healthy and relatively athletic, but that just meant that he could handle himself well in a fair fist-fight, that he was at ease on ice skates or on a skateboard, and that he could run pretty fast. Natural athleticism doesn’t help you when you’ve got a rope around your neck.

These thoughts were only some of the memories and images whirling through Marty McFly’s head, as he tried to sit quietly on the hard chair in the living quarters of Doctor Emmett L. Brown’s workshop. The older man had carefully cleansed Marty's scraped face and chafed neck, and was now inspecting the teen’s throat with gentle hands. Emmett frowned in concentration and made a soft sound, a kind of a “hmm.”

“What, Doc?“ Marty rasped.

“Please, Marty, try not to talk. I think it’s best you rest your voice for a while. Your larynx could be quite swollen.”

“Yeah, m’ throat hurts, too.”

Doc’s face twisted into a smirk, which he tried to dispel without much success. “Marty, quiet.”

The teen followed the direction for about five more minutes, until Doc sat back, viewing the disheveled young man from head to toe. “Any serious injuries? I have to believe you’re full of bumps and bruises, but is there anything that feels broken, or sprained? I can do a more thorough examination.”

Now that Marty had sat for a while, and the adrenaline from escaping death had begun to subside, he realized that _everything_ hurt. Fortunately, none of it did seem overly serious. He shook his head, winced, then whispered, “No, nothing like that. But I could sure use some aspirin.”

“Fresh out,” Doc smiled. “And I’d rather you not sample the pain relievers available in this time period. No, I think rest is going to be the best remedy I can suggest at this point.”

Marty nodded, again grimaced at the pain caused by the head movement, and said, “You’re the doc, Doc.”

Emmett’s face fairly glowed. “Oh, I did miss you Marty. I am still rather displeased you followed me here to this time when I distinctly told you not to, but I am very glad to see you.”

“Me too, Doc. But I had to come – you see, you sent me – “ Marty reached for his pocket, meaning to pull out the photo of the tombstone. Doc gently stayed Marty’s hand, although with a firm gaze. “Settle down, Marty. Relax, we have time. That is just one of the benefits of having a time machine at your disposal.”

“No, we _don’t _have time, Doc! That’s why I’m here – “

Again Emmett interrupted his friend, this time by lifting his hand in a “stop” gesture. He was studying Marty curiously, especially at the dusty, ripped clothing. “I know. I remember.” He shook his head minutely, looking somewhat sheepish. “What _was_ I thinking with those clothes?”

“You remember?” Marty looked hard at his mentor.

Doc spoke slowly. “It’s. . . strange. Now that I’ve had some time to think about it, the memories are there. Not completely, they seem to be a bit piece-meal, but it appears just your presence here in 1885 has prompted the recollections. How very strange,” he repeated, his eyes becoming unfocused.

Forgetting the pain, Marty nodded intensely. “Exactly!” he said hoarsely. “My memories from the better 1985 started to come to me, once I woke up and saw the changes, but then they got kinda . . . scattered.” He rubbed at his throat, cleared it softly, and continued. “I don’t know what happened, if it’s because I screwed everything up with the almanac and changed the memories again. . ?”

Doc’s eyes snapped back into focus. “Oh, yes, that could possibly be it. It could also be because you spent a very small amount of time awake and aware in what you consider your ‘improved’ 1985. Or it could be because you have been out of your time for the past several days, being either in 2015 or 1955 or in the almanac-created 1985 – “

“Hell Valley,” Marty muttered.

“Indeed.” Emmett’s face darkened for a moment, then he remembered what he’d been talking about. “But as for your new memories becoming jumbled, I admit I really can’t say definitively what the reason might be. I suppose you will just have to wait – _we_ will just have to wait – until we are back in 1985 to stay.“

Marty shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “Uh, Doc, I – well, when I said we didn’t have time. . . The DeLorean kind of got beat up when I got here.” Doc raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt as the teen continued. “I mean, c’mon, I showed up between the cowboy and Indian fight, and arrows were flying all around me, and something happened to the gas tank. Maybe I damaged it trying to get away, but there _was_ an arrow stuck in the car. . . I just know there was fuel leaking out.“

It only took a second for Doc to hit a palm to his head, remark the totally predictable “Great Scott!” and then rise, looking wildly around the room. Marty stared up at him warily.

“That’s bad, huh?”

“Oh, I’d say that presents a problem or two, yes, Marty. Gasoline may exist in this time period as a byproduct of kerosene manufacturing, but it won’t be available as a fuel for vehicles for another seven years.”

Marty felt an instant pain of shame. “I’m sorry, Doc. I’m always screwing things up. I don’t know why you’re friends with me.”

Emmett marveled at the young man’s overly dejected tone. “What on earth are you speaking about?”

Marty didn’t respond immediately. He tilted his head slightly, and furrowed his brow. “Uh – I don’t know,” he finally said. “I think I’m just beat.”

“Of course!” Doc said, lifting his eyes heavenward in self-disgust. “I’ll find you something you can change into that is more comfortable, and then we’ll dispose of those anachronistic clothes.” He strode to a wardrobe and began to rummage through it. “Are you hungry, Marty?” he called over his shoulder.

Marty grimaced, which went unseen as Doc was not facing the teen. “No, that’s okay,” he answered the older man. “I’m not in the mood for more buckshot.”

Doc turned with a bundle of clothes. “Buckshot?” he repeated, perplexed.

“Yeah, there were pellets in the rabbit. And the water looked cloudier than Beckett’s pond back home, you know when it gets that scum on it –“

Doc waved his hands quickly, stopping Marty’s ramble. “Rabbit? When did you eat rabbit? _Where _did you eat rabbit? Just exactly where were you before Tannen and his gang got a hold of you?”

Marty’s hand went up to his neck, and he rubbed it lightly. “It kinda hurts to talk, Doc – “

Emmett shook his head, and this time he didn’t look entertained at all. He set the clothing aside, and moved closer to the teen. Brown eyes bore into blue ones, but neither man spoke. “What happened?” Emmett finally said, and the tone of his voice showed he already knew it wasn’t good.

For a moment Marty contemplated lying, to avoid what would most likely be an unpleasant conversation. But it was only a moment. When he realized what he was doing, considering lying to his best friend, the man who had just saved his life. . . Well, that would make him a rotten excuse for a friend.

“I told you I got kind of mixed up in the Indian and Calvary fight, and then there was this bear, and I had to run, and I was tired and hot, and I fell down a hill. . . Right into a fence that my great-great-grandfather was working on.”

“Your great-great-grandfather. You’re talking about Seamus McFly.”

“Uh. . . yeah. Him.” Marty was mildly surprised that Doc knew who he was speaking about, but then remembered that Seamus also knew of Doc; the farmer had recognized the name "Brown" when Marty had specified who he was searching for. “He and my great-great-grandmother Maggie took care of me. They fed me supper, I spent the night in their barn, and Seamus ran me to town this morning. Well, closer to town.”

Doc was now pacing, still shaking his head. “Are you – are you incapable of running into your ancestors?” he demanded.

Marty was angered and wounded by the words. It hadn't been his fault that he'd time-traveled into the middle of an Indian/Calvary skirmish, and then had been almost eaten by a bear. Not to mention he'd kind of enjoyed being with his family. Maggie had been a little severe, but Seamus. . . Forget how much the guy looked like him _(or I guess **I** look like him),_ but Marty had felt a different type of kinship with his ancestor, a similarity that went beyond looks. When Seamus had returned from hunting up supper to see that their young visitor appeared well recovered, he'd actually come over to embrace Marty, and had murmured some kind of Irish blessing. Then, after Seamus had skinned the rabbits and while Maggie was finishing the supper preparations, Marty was again introduced to William Sean. Seamus had been initially surprised by William's affection toward Marty, but that had quickly changed to obvious pride - which had felt weirdly familiar.

But soon those pleasant memories were overcome by a sad kind of guilt, and Marty dropped his head, staring at the dusty wooden floor. “I know, Doc, you’re right. I did it again, screwed things up. I’m sorry.” He lifted his head, and looked miserably at the older man. “I can’t do anything right, even when I try.”

Doc stopped pacing, and he turned abruptly to stare at the young man. “There you go again, Marty. Where is this attitude of self-reproach coming from? I’ve never known you to be this discouraged, not even when Jennifer broke up with you over the summer. You told me you weren’t giving up on the two of you, and you were right – “

“Doc, wait!” Marty crossed his hands in the shape of a ‘T’. “Time out!” Doc smiled briefly at the familiar gesture and words, until Marty continued, his voice slightly distressed. “Jennifer and I never broke up! What are you talking about?”

The two men once again stared wordlessly at each other. Again it was Emmett who broke the silence, although his words were quiet and hesitant. “You . . . don’t recall that, Marty? How you came over to talk to me, to tell me your precise plan to get Jennifer back, that you were convinced the two of you were ‘meant to be’?”

_And of course we are, we’re married in 2015, with two kids to boot!_ But Marty just shook his head vehemently. “No, Doc. You’re wrong. We never broke up.”

“In my memories, in my timeline, you did.”

The young man rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. Emmett felt a fondness at seeing the accustomed movement, one he’d even seen George McFly employ when he was uncomfortable or nervous. But then the older man sobered, realizing that this time the gesture was more of a response to aches and pains. He again sat in front of the teen, regarding him solemnly. “We can discuss this later, Marty, when you’re feeling better.”

“No, Doc, I need to know. . . _Your _timeline?” Marty’s face was creased in a confused frown, and combined with the obvious scrapes and bruises and the dusty, ruined clothes, the teen looked truly pitiful. It was almost so Emmett didn’t want to continue, but then Marty made a “come on” gesture, and the scientist began, haltingly.

“It was barely a month that you two were apart. . . Jennifer broke up with you at the end of the school term – “

“Why?”

Doc hesitated again. He finally shrugged. “The ways of women are largely lost on me, Marty. They are a mystery and a fascination, but sadly I do not have the requisite background to begin to understand why women do what they do. I believe the phrase she used was that she ‘needed space.’”

Marty made a face at that, but it was brief. “Whatever. We got back together, you said? A couple weeks later?”

“Correct. It was at the Solstice Festival. Your musical troupe – “

“My wha – Oh, my band.”

“Yes,” Emmett nodded. “Your band had acquired a contract to entertain at the festival – “

“A gig, Doc. You mean we got a gig.”

“Fine.” The scientist rolled his eyes slightly, but his face held a small grin. Marty smiled as well, and then his eyes widened. “Wait, my band got a gig at the Solstice Festival?” The annual festival, held the weekend after the summer solstice, was a heavily-attended event in Hill Valley, and boasted live music on both Friday and Saturday nights. “How could we swing that, and yet when we auditioned for the school dance they turned us down?”

Again Emmett took a minute before he replied. “That happened before we met at the mall to test the time machine, correct?” Marty nodded in agreement. “I recall you mentioned that to me, but it was just in passing, as you weren’t overly upset. You actually seemed amused that they had rebuked you based on your increased sound, as your band had auditioned for the performance –_ gig_ – at the Solstice Festival with a song that was at a much higher volume.”

“We had?” Marty’s eyes were still wide, and now there was a spark of recognition mixed with the surprise. “Yeah! I think I remember! We played Quiet Riot, ‘Bang Your Head’!” There was a memory of there being a unanimous vote by the Pinheads to play the hard rock song at their audition. They had also played “I’ve Just Seen a Face,” by the Beatles, just to show their range (bass player Paul, who’d been named after Paul McCartney, was an unapologetic Beatles fan), but they’d really pulled out all the stops on the Quiet Riot song. All four members had felt the song portrayed their individual talents, even though it was a little heavy on guitar solos (which Marty hadn’t minded in the least). It also had a refrain in which all of the members could join, rather than a song meant only for a lead vocal. The Pinheads played their share of those songs, too, of course, and while Marty often led the vocals, he wasn’t the only one in the group with a good voice. He just happened to play lead guitar as well, and the two talents had merged to automatically make him the most frequent main singer.

Although Marty had somewhat lucked into the roll. The Pinheads (named after the Ramones song "Pinhead"), had been seeking a new lead guitar player, after their current lead man, Nate, had moved to Sacramento. Paul had known Marty since Boy Scouts, and had suggested him as a replacement for Nate, even suggesting Marty be inducted without the need of an audition. Keyboardist Pete and drummer Isaac had been leery of replacing Nate with a relative outsider, but Paul had eventually convinced them. “So what if he's never been in a band? He’s just as good as Nate, if not better,” Paul had defended his choice. "And he just got his own axe. It’s like fate, or something.”

“Well, I can’t recall the name of your audition song,” Doc was saying now, “but ‘Bang Your Head’ definitely sounds like it would be a . . . loud choice.” The scientist chuckled lightly. “As for the songs your band performed during your set, those were all of a theme. I do remember you sang one by that Springsteen fellow, the young man who was on that daytime television serial.”

Marty looked at his friend in complete confusion, then abruptly started to laugh. “Spring_field_, Doc! Not Springsteen. You mean Rick Springfield!” His laughter died down a bit as he moaned and held his side. Emmett leaned forward, worried eyes searching his young friend's face. “Are you all right, Marty?”

The teen waved a hand. “Yeah, just sore.” He took a breath before continuing. “You must be talking about ‘Jessie’s Girl.’ Is that the song you meant?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Only you changed the lyric at the end. “

And suddenly Marty could see it, clear as day. Standing on the outdoor stage under the lights, looking out over the crowd but only seeing Jennifer, playing his Chiquita and singing strongly into the mike:

_And I'm looking in the mirror all the time_   
_Wondering what she don't see in me_   
_I've been funny, I've been cool with the lines_   
_Ain't that the way love's supposed to be?_

_Tell me, why can’t I have a woman like that_

_You know, I wish that Jenny was my girl  
I wish that Jenny was my girl_

“How do I remember that?” Marty whispered. He could now also remember the rest of the set from the Pinheads’ “love covers” show. “Love is Like a Rock” by Donnie Iris. ”I Want You to Want Me” by Cheap Trick. An up-tempo version of the Beatles’ “Oh! Darling.” All picked specifically because the lyrics of the songs made him think of his relationship with Jennifer, what it had been and what he wanted it to return to. And his bandmates had graciously gone along with it, mainly because the songs were familiar hits that they all could play well. It wasn't often that the group did a complete cover song show and didn't play any original music, but the guys had really gotten tired of their lead guitarist's heartsick mood.

And the sentimental song list had worked. Especially when they'd ended with Journey’s “Open Arms.” He’d barely gotten off the back of the stage, intending to help break down the set and get the band’s personal instruments and amps and cables and cords back in Pete’s van, when Jennifer had appeared. She’d been crying, and before he could even ask her if she was all right she’d thrown her arms around him and kissed him long enough to make him breathless.

Doc was appraising Marty, watching as the teen’s wide eyes became distant and glassy. When Marty took a sharp breath and blinked, his expression changed from introspective to bewildered. “I don’t get it, Doc! I’m not in 1985, but now I’m getting new memories! How is that possible?”

Emmett leaned back, then rose and began to pace anew. But this time the pacing was more thoughtful than distressed. “It may . . . I’m just conjecturing here, but it could be that as I am sharing my memories, your recollections are being summarily adjusted to fit within your perceived ‘new’ 1985 timeline that you had returned to, after you left 1955."

"So, I'm having 'contact' memories?”

Emmett nodded. "That's an excellent description."

Marty heaved a breath, and Doc was almost ready to simultaneously say the word “Heavy,” with the teen. But instead of speaking his typical declaration, Marty instead asked, in a voice still tinged with hoarseness: “Doc, what do you remember about how we met?”

Emmett inhaled, then let it out slowly. “How we met.”

“Yeah. It’s just – if your memory is different than mine, then our background – our whole _friendship_ – could be different than I remember, and I just don’t know if I can handle that. . .” Marty trailed off, breathing deeply.

“You do realize,” Doc said gently, “if my verbal descriptions of my memories are changing your memories, then what I say I recall _will _be what you recall.”

“But if I start to tell you my memory first, and it’s not the same as yours, you could lie, and say it is, just to make me feel better. I wouldn’t know.”

Doc smiled faintly. “You can’t have it both ways, Marty. But if you tell me your memory, and it’s different than mine . . . Well, I’ve never lied to you, and I don’t plan to now.”

Marty didn't doubt the sincerity of the statement. _Had _ Doc ever lied to him? He’d kept things from Marty, the teen knew that, but when Marty had asked outright questions, he did seem to recall that Doc had answered truthfully, if not always in great detail. And when it was a question he didn’t want to answer, he’d said as much. “I don’t think that is germane to what we are working on, Marty,” or “I’d rather not expound on that right now, Marty,” or “That’s not something I wish to discuss, Marty.”

Marty took another deep breath, put his faith in Doc’s honesty, and then began.

** _BTTFBTTFBTTFBTTFBTTF_ **

**Wednesday, August 11th, 1982**

**9:40 A.M.**

**Hill Valley, California**

Marty shook a small amount of granola cereal in his bowl, added just enough milk to make it moist, and tried to ignore his sister’s annoyed expression.

“I don’t know who you’re trying to impress, eating like a health nut.” Linda of the rolling eyes was digging into her second bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

Dave returned from the front door, where he’d gone in search of the paper. “Dad must’ve really left early this morning, he didn’t even get the paper in.”

Linda nodded, swallowing before replying. “Yeah, I think he had to run some errand or something for Biff before work. I heard Mom and Dad arguing about it last night.”

“So did I,” Dave said, tucking the paper under his arm. “Probably why Mom’s still in bed with a ‘headache,’” Dave did air quotes, “when it’s almost ten in the morning.” All three kids – even Marty, at fourteen – knew by now that Lorraine’s frequent headaches and lethargic mornings were alcohol-induced. Although none of them liked to say it out loud. Who wants to admit that their mother is a drunk?

Marty shoveled the rest of his cereal in his mouth, then reached to grab the paper from his brother. “I’ll take it to her, I gotta talk to her anyway.”

Marty knocked lightly on his parents’ bedroom door, waiting for an invitation to enter. When he heard his mother’s soft voice, he pushed in the door and held the newspaper out as a peace offering. “Got the paper for you, Mom.”

Lorraine pushed herself up into a sitting position, with her back against the headboard. “Oh, Marty, thank you.” She looked around the room with squinty, puffy eyes. “Do you think you could get me some Tylenol and a cup of water?”

“Yeah, sure.” Marty stepped into the master suite's bathroom, filled a Dixie cup with water, and got three tablets out of the economy-sized bottle. When he returned to the bedside, Lorraine was looking at the paper. She took the offered pain reliver and water with a distracted air, and it was some time after that when she noticed her youngest was still standing nearby. “Did you need something, hon?”

“Ah, yeah.” Marty rubbed the back of his neck, not sure how to start. “Um, you know how a while ago you and Dad said, that if I earned half the money, that you’d help me buy an electric guitar?” Before Lorraine could speak, Marty rushed on. “I have about $120 saved, and I’m gonna mow Uncle Milton’s yard one or two more times before school starts, and I was hoping. . .” His voice gradually lost its volume as he saw the definite frown on his mother’s face.

“Oh, Marty.” Lorraine lowered the paper to look somberly at her son. “I know how important this is to you, but we just don’t have the extra money right now. Maybe by Christmas.”

“But, you said last Christmas that maybe by my birthday, and now that’s come and gone.” Marty knew he was whining, and fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t whine, especially when one of his birthday gifts had been a new skateboard (which had helped him momentarily forget the unfulfilled promise of finances toward an electric guitar). But _damn _he was tired of getting strung along.

“I don’t know what to tell you, hon,” Lorraine said. “The hot water heater needed to be replaced, and the air conditioning in the car had to be fixed, and you have your acoustic guitar, isn’t that good enough?”

Marty’s acoustic guitar, a present he'd received from his Grandma Sylvia on his eighth birthday, had served him well. He'd taken care of it as well as he could, but it had been a relatively cheap starter model, purchased as an "experiment" to see if Marty's sudden interest in playing guitar was serious. He'd replaced the strings several times and had done his best to keep the instrument safe and clean, but the Hohner now seemed to be peculiarly out of tune, and disappointed by the hollow, rough sound, he had been ignoring it of late, letting it sit in its case propped up in the corner of his room. And even if he could salvage the instrument, he doubted he’d ever get anywhere – like in a band – with a pint-sized acoustic guitar that had really been purchased for a little kid.

But instead of saying any of that, Marty just ducked his head, clumsily checked his watch, and then said, “I want to get Uncle Milton’s lawn done before he comes home for lunch. I’ll see you later.”

“Be careful on the death board of yours!” Lorraine called out as he left the bedroom.

ooOoo

Marty liked going to his Uncle Milton’s house. Milton was the only sibling of Lorraine’s that had a house within skate-boarding distance. Sally Elton (née Baines) also still lived in Hill Valley, but Marty could only skateboard there in a reasonable amount of time if he car-surfed, and he wasn’t too comfortable doing that yet – the one or two times he’d tried, he'd either wiped out or almost caused an accident. Doug Needles, a kid he knew from school, said he just needed practice, but Needles said a lot of crazy things.

So Marty liked that he could skateboard to Uncle Milton’s in a short amount of time. He liked that Uncle Milton had a dog – it was a yippy terrier, but it was still a dog he could play with (the McFly family was unable to own a dog, as Linda was allergic). He liked the fact that, since Milton was four years younger than Lorraine, Milton’s kids were basically his age, being only a few months older than Marty. It was nice to have cousins that he could hang out with that weren’t years older than him, and so not have to worry about being relentlessly teased (Dave) or insulted/ignored (Linda). The only issue he had with Milton’s kids – twins – was their names: Milton Jr. and Mildred. _What kind of ego does somebody have to have to name both of their kids after themselves?_ he often thought. Luckily, Milton Jr. went by M,J., and Mildred went by Millie, so it wasn’t patently obvious. But it was still weird. 

But the thing that he liked most about going to Uncle Milton’s was that if he timed his arrival just right, or offered to walk the dog at just the right time, he’d pass the Parkers’ house when Jennifer was sitting on the porch swing reading a book, or outside getting the mail. At the beginning of the summer they’d merely traded smiles, but now that it was August, they’d begun waving at each other and sharing pleasantries. And sometimes, when Jennifer looked at him in a _certain_ way, Marty’s stomach would flip-flop, and he’d grin like a fool.

He liked that flip-flop feeling.

Today, though, he’d been distracted by the recent depressing talk with his mother, and he was cruising past Jennifer’s house before he realized it. Until he heard his name, called out softly, but loud enough to be heard over the whirring of his skateboard wheels.

“Marty!”

He turned to the left, and saw Jennifer in a white tank top and denim shorts, and _damn!_ – and then his skateboard hit that raised crack in the sidewalk that he normally skated around, and he wiped out, hard. As he’d also been wearing shorts – he got hot mowing Uncle Milton’s yard – his bare knees were immediately skinned and scraped, as were his elbows. His hands, having slammed into the ground when he tried to break his fall, were peppered on the palms with little pebbles and random debris. _I won’t be able to play the guitar for a week_, he thought randomly, forgetting that he hadn’t really been playing his acoustic guitar much anyway.

Then Jennifer was at his side, helping him up, reaching to grab his skateboard, and guiding him to her porch. “That looked really bad,” she said. “You’re bleeding all over.” She sat him on the porch swing. “Wait here, I’ll get our first aid kit.”

When Jennifer returned with the first aid kit (and her mother, Marty saw unhappily), the two hovered over him, cleaning his scrapes with stuff that _hurt_, and using an unusual amount of gauze bandages and Band-Aids. Then Mrs. Parker said the thing Marty had been dreading.

“I think I should call your parents. You can’t ride back home on that board all beat up like this.”

“No, no, you don’t have to do that,” Marty answered quickly. “My uncle lives up the street. That’s where I was headed. I can make it there fine, and they’ll get me home.” He smiled wanly at the mother and daughter. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?” Jennifer reached out to touch his shoulder, and his stomach didn’t just flip-flop, it _dropped_. “My mom could give you a ride to your uncle’s.”

Marty swallowed, trying to get saliva back into his suddenly dry mouth. “No, it’s not that far . . . but maybe somebody should walk with me. In case I get light-headed or something.”

And after walking with Jennifer to his uncle’s, and getting an honest-to-goodness goodbye kiss from her (on the cheek, but _still_), Marty almost forgot completely about his lack of guitar-money issue.

_Almost_. But then Uncle Milton – home for lunch – saw his injuries and refused to let him mow the grass (“In that condition? You can’t be serious. Your mom would have my head!”). Next, after Milton had run him home on the way back to work, Lorraine saw the same injuries and threw a hissy fit, confiscating Marty’s skateboard for a week. And finally, Dave came to his room to call him to dinner, saw his brother's liberally bandaged injuries, and snorted derisive laughter.

So it was that after dinner was over and twilight was falling, when Dave was at his evening shift at Burger King and Marty’s parents were settled in front of the TV (George with a lap desk of papers and a briefcase on the floor near him, Lorraine with a glass of something that was clear but was definitely not water), Marty grabbed his old board with the cracked deck and sneaked out of his bedroom window. Once he was far enough away that he wouldn’t be heard, he dropped the board to the ground and kicked off in the direction of BK.

Dave McFly was momentarily surprised to see Marty skulk into the fast food restaurant, gripping his second-hand skateboard. The older brother recovered fairly quickly, and asked to take his break early. Jerking his head at Marty to follow, Dave brought his discounted meal to a back booth, and they both sat. Dave shoved his fries over to his brother. “Here. But if you want any of my drink, it’s not diet – you’ll have to deal.”

Marty nodded quietly, munching on the fries. He watched as Dave unwrapped his Whopper and took a large bite. “How much money do you make here?” Marty asked suddenly.

Dave chewed, swallowed, and shook his head. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Dave repeated. “For one, I don’t want you working at the same place as me. Are you kidding? We’d kill each other.” He bit into his sandwich again, and washed down the bite with soda. “Second, you’re too young. They wouldn’t hire you here without a parent’s approval. And there’s no way Mom or Dad will sign off on that. You’re the baby.” Dave took a few fries from the carton in front of his brother. “You know Mom called Uncle Milton earlier, when you were hiding in your room nursing your boo-boos. She doesn’t really want you to go over there anymore.”

“I know.” Marty reached for Dave’s soda, took a sip through the straw, and grimaced. “Wow, that’s sweet.” He passed the cup back. “Mom told me after you left. She said it didn’t make sense for Uncle Milton to pay me to mow when he’s got M.J. to do that. That he was basically paying M,J, and Millie allowance and me money and he couldn’t afford to do all three.”

“That does kind of make sense, twerp,” Dave pointed out.

“The only reason I started doing Uncle Milton’s mowing was because Millie can’t even get the mower started, and M,J. hurt his knee in football camp,” Marty defended himself.

“Yeah, but that was last summer. His knee is fine now. You’re basically redundant.” Marty scowled, then shoved some more fries in his mouth. Dave shrugged, taking another bite of his burger. “I don’t know why you want money so bad, anyway,” he said around the food in his mouth. After swallowing, he continued. “Another guitar? You hardly play the one you’ve got.”

“An _electric_ guitar. And then I’ll need an amp, and a strap, and better picks, and extra strings, and a stand. . . It’s a lot of money,” Marty sighed.

“Well,” Dave sucked up the last of his soda, “if it’s that important to you, you’ll figure something out. You usually do.” He grabbed up the trash from his meal and loaded it onto his tray. “Now I have to get back to work, and you have to get home. Before they realize you’re gone.”

“Yeah, I doubt they’ll notice,” Marty said. “Dad’s working on Biff’s reports and Mom’s working on tomorrow’s headache. They won’t have a clue. And Linda won’t care.”

Dave rose, looking down on the shorter boy. “You don’t want to go home yet, fine. But don’t hang around here and get me in trouble, _baby_.” He reached out to mess Marty’s hair; the teen drew back and slapped his brother’s hand away. Grinning, Dave headed back to the counter, tossing his trash into the garbage can along the way.

Neither McFly brother had noticed the tall, white-haired man sitting hunched in a nearby booth, listening quietly to their conversation.

Dr. Emmett L. Brown, residence 1646 John F. Kennedy Drive, frequented the Burger King, although he usually ate his meal earlier in the day. On that particular day he had slept late, after drawing up schematics well into the previous night (early morning, really), and as a result, he’d been off on his eating schedule. It was a common thing – sometimes he forgot to eat at all. But he had been hungry, and not having much to eat at home, he’d made the short trip next door and ordered his regular – a Whopper with no onions, an order of fries, and a Pepsi. Recently his order had expanded to include a plain hamburger to go, which he took home for his puppy Einstein.

The staff at Burger King knew him well and basically treated him as another regular customer, as opposed to the “local crackpot” reaction he got at a lot of other establishments in town. He was such a familiar face at the fast food restaurant now that he could sit his lanky frame in a booth and eat his meal without being unduly stared at, even when it was at an odd time of the day. Which was the main reason why Dave McFly hadn’t noticed him.

Marty, sulking and grumpy, had just been oblivious.

So when the scientist came to stand before his booth just as Marty was about to rise, the teen gave a small yelp and dropped back down. Emmett gazed down at the young man with a troubled frown. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Well, you did. . . Doctor Brown,” Marty said.

“You know who I am.”

Marty shrugged and rolled his eyes at the same time. Emmett grunted softly. “Of course,” he murmured. Then, “Is it all right if I sit down?”

Marty shrugged again. Emmett folded himself into the booth, placing his to-go bag on the table. “I wanted to talk to you about your conversation with your brother.”

“You were spying on us?” Marty said, disbelieving.

“No – being in proximity to a conversation and hearing it in a normal listening function is not spying.”

“What?”

Emmett smiled softly. “I overheard.”

“Oh.” Marty shook his head. “That was a funny way of saying it.”

Emmett gestured up at the counter. “That _was_ your brother, correct? David?”

“Yeah, Dave. Um, I’m Marty. Marty McFly.”

“Emmett Brown.” The scientist held out his hand, and after a moment Marty shook it. Before the teen drew his hand back completely, Emmett gently twisted his wrist, looking at the bandaged palm, and then touched its mate, resting on the table top. “What happened here?”

Marty drew his hands back self-consciously, setting them in his lap. “I wiped out on my skateboard.” He tipped his head at the board, propped up on the seat next to him. “No big deal.”

“Ah.” The scientist looked glum. “I hope that won't affect your response to my planned request.”

“What? Were you going to ask me something?” In spite of the weird conversation, Marty’s curiosity was piqued.

“Well, yes. I’m afraid it may be an odd request, but it’s something that I have been considering, and after hearing your conversation, I believe it’s somewhat serendipitous that I was in the restaurant at the precise time to hear your dilemma.” 

“Serend—“

“It means luck. Fortune.” The older man waved a hand. “Fate.”

Marty lowered his chin, looking up with skeptical eyes. “Fate,” he repeated doubtfully. “What could you have to do with my fate?”

Emmett placed his hands on the table top, intertwining his fingers. “I. . . create things. Inventions. I also repair things, offer scientific advice, and tutor a little. I had taught physics at the university, but I’ve ‘retired’ from that of late.” It had been a combination of being asked to leave, and not fighting his exit, as his inventions and mobile “scientific services” had been quite enough to keep him busy. So busy, in fact, that the necessity of an assistant had recently become apparent.

Marty nodded; what Doctor Brown was telling him was pretty much common knowledge in the small town; it was why he had known the man's identity on sight. “So. . . “ the teen said, drawing out the word inquisitively.

“I’ve been thinking of bringing on an junior associate of sorts, to help assist me with my experiments and to attend to other random daily duties. I was going to put up flyers, possibly at the library or the community college or maybe even at the high school, but now I’m wondering. . . Would you be interested in the job? I would pay you, of course.”

Marty straightened significantly at the word “pay.” “What . . . would I do? I mean, _if_ I took the job,” the teen added hurriedly.

Emmett’s brown eyes twinkled. “Well, assist with my scientific experiments, as I already said. Nothing dangerous, at least nothing planned to be dangerous, accidents do happen. . .” When Marty looked fairly alarmed by that comment, the older man quickly added, “Although maybe we’d wait on that.”

“Okay, yeah,” Marty agreed.

Doctor Brown went on. “I don’t have much of a yard to mow, but I suppose the general area would need some maintenance, especially when the neighborhood youngsters get it into their heads to decorate my home with eggs or toilet paper or some such.” Marty’s alarmed look returned. The scientist rushed on. “Of course, that really only happens around Halloween or New Year’s Eve.”

“Oh. Well, what else?”

“I have a young dog that would need to be walked – “

“You have a dog?” Marty’s face lit up. “What kind?”

“A sheepdog. A puppy, really.” Emmett gestured to the to-go bag. “This is for him.”

“You feed your dog Burger King?” Marty frowned. “Doctor Brown, that’s not great for a dog. He should have something more healthy than that. Dog food, at least.”

Emmett was frowning back. "I do purchase dog food for him when I go to the store, but I don't shop as much as I should. I find grocery shopping tedious and unpleasant. I'm more comfortable here." He waved around the restaurant. "The staff know me, as do most of the regular clientele."

Marty looked hard at the older man. “They’re mean to you at the grocery store, aren’t they?”

The scientist returned the stare with a surprised, and slightly pleased, laugh. “You’re more observant than I realized.” When Marty didn’t answer, only looking surprised and pleased himself, Emmett continued. “That is another thing you could do for me. You could go to the store and obtain my groceries. I would give you a detailed list and the required amount of money to pay for the purchases. But wait. You don’t drive yet, correct?” He pointed in the direction of Marty’s skateboard.

“Well, no. I’m only fourteen. But you have a car, right? What I mean is, you could drive there, and sit in the car, and I could go inside and shop for you.”

“I suppose we could do that,” Emmett said slowly. “Until you get your license.”

“Wait a minute, time out here, Doc,” Marty put his bandaged hands up in a “T” gesture. “I never even said I’d take the job. You already have me working for you for the next two years.”

“Ah. I suppose that’s technically correct, you haven’t accepted the position.” Emmett peaked his hands together in front of his face. “But you are interested, yes?”

Marty looked back at the town crackpot, assessing him quietly. Yes, the man was oddly tall and lanky, with wild white hair that seemed to have a life of its own. He was wearing a garishly patterned button-down shirt that appeared old and outdated, but it was clean, and not _terribly_ wrinkled. The man’s hands were callused, but had been surprisingly careful and soft when they had touched Marty’s injured hands. And his face, which _was_ wrinkled, also looked friendly and open and somehow, fiercely intelligent. Marty wasn’t sure exactly how he knew that, but he did.

He found himself unaccountably liking Doctor Brown.

“Yeah, I am interested, Doctor Brown. I’d really like to work for you.” Marty extended his right hand, and after a brief moment. Emmett reached to grasp it lightly. As the two shook a second time, Emmett grinned widely, and Marty soon found himself returning the grin.

“Now, you’ll need to speak to your parents, and I assume they’d want to meet me as well, and once that is done we’ll need to discuss your pay and sort out what your actual responsibilities would be, although I would rather you recover from your injuries before you start, and school will be starting soon, correct? So that will impact when you could work for me, evenings and weekends would work best, although I wouldn’t presume to take up all of your time, you must have a social life with your peers, yes? Of course, you’ll be required to keep up your studies, it would hardly be appropriate if your grades suffered, but I could help you with that. . . “

And as Emmett continued his excited rambling, Marty began to laugh.

** _BTTFBTTFBTTFBTTFBTTF_ **

**Thursday, September 3rd, 1885**

**Hill Valley, California**

Marty had stopped his story, and there was a noticeable moment of silence, in which the young man could feel and hear his heart beat faster as his anxiety rose. _Is that what Doc remembers? If it’s not, will he tell me his version? Or will he actually try to lie to me?_

Then the scientist smiled genuinely at his assistant-turned best friend, and reached out to clap him firmly on the shoulder. “That couldn’t have been closer to my memory if you had been wearing my brain-wave analyzer device – and it _worked_ – and you had read my mind.”

Marty let out a relieved sigh that was so expressive, the air of it actually caused his bangs to move. “That’s great, Doc,” he said weakly, suddenly exhausted.

“You’ll be able to rest now?” Emmett said, concerned. “I know you’re worried about the condition of the time machine, and rightly so, but you won’t be any help to me in the state you’re currently in. We need to be at our best, Marty.”

It didn’t take long for Marty to kick off his shoes and shed his ruined 1955 “cowboy” clothes – replacing them with a regrettably oversized pair of Doc’s long underwear – and ensconce himself in the bed in the living quarters of the old livery stable. He was asleep in minutes.

Emmett scooped up the cast-off outdated clothes, and stood in the middle of the room, trying to determine how best to dispose of the vestments. Absentmindedly, he searched through the pockets, and pulled out a photograph that showed a tombstone in a cemetery.

_His _ tombstone. With an inscription that showed his date of death was only _four_ days away – and there was an epitaph from someone described as "his beloved" Clara!

But . . . he knew that. Didn’t he? Of course he did! His untimely death was precisely why Marty had vowed, in 1955, that he would travel back to 1885, instead of to his own time. And Emmett hadn't discouraged his rescue mission. He'd sent him on his way In terrible attire, yes, but the teen had made it back. Doc looked over at the bed, where Marty was snoring softly. He’d let the young man sleep a few hours, but then there was much to do.

So much, in fact, that he really didn’t have time to ponder over why his recollection of how he had first met Marty differed remarkably from the teen’s memories.

He thought about it anyway.

_ **TO BE CONTINUED (NEXT WORK)** _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Time Will Tell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283180) by [HaMandCheezIts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaMandCheezIts/pseuds/HaMandCheezIts)


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